


Breaking And Entering

by bioticbootyshaker



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Fanfiction, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Recruited" by Robert to form a counter-offense against inception and the team behind it, Eames finds himself biting off more than he can chew with his feisty new employer. While Cobb and his team prepare for their inception on Robert, Eames and Fischer find themselves testing the boundaries of their complicated relationship. Used to getting a job done, quickly and efficiently, Eames is disturbed by just how much he wants to protect Robert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breaking And Entering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Recruited" by Robert to form a counter-offense against inception and the team behind it, Eames finds himself biting off more than he can chew with his feisty new employer. While Cobb and his team prepare for their inception on Robert, Eames and Fischer find themselves testing the boundaries of their complicated relationship. Used to getting a job done, quickly and efficiently, Eames is disturbed by just how much he wants to protect Robert.

Breaking And Entering

_Mombasa, Kenya_

Eames stared through the smoke and into his opponent’s eyes. Sweat rolled down the center of his back and down his brow, stinging in his right eye. He blinked it away absently, not allowing his opponent to see what could be mistaken for any kind of weakness. 

“Show ‘em,” the man across from him grunted, blowing smoke from his nostrils and flicking his cigarette into the ashtray between them. 

Eames laid his cards on the table. “Full house,” he said, “Sorry, mate. Rough luck.”

He reached for the money crumpled on the table, but was stopped by a heavy, emphysemic laugh. “Ah-ah,” the man chided, fanning his cards out. “Four sevens.”

The man had cheated, of course. Eames couldn't pretend he was upset, after all, he had cheated too. The problem was he hadn’t cheated _enough_. He had been _out_ cheated. It was an unusual turn of events, and Eames wasn't really sure how to handle the situation. He supposed he could have snatched the money and ran off; he could probably make it about ten feet before the man and his ‘friends’ shot him in the back.

But it wasn't about the money. The money had never been the point.

It was about _winning_.

“Another game, friend?” The man asked, smiling wryly. 

“I think I’ll pass,” Eames said, tucking a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and standing from the table. He lit his smoke and exhaled slowly. “Think I've lost enough of my money for one night.”

The man looked up, and Eames caught a dangerous flash in his eye. He had been stupid not to notice it earlier. Now that he had though, what could he do about it? The men who flanked the man were nothing terribly imposing, but Eames could see the shape of guns under their jackets. Semi-automatic, if he knew anything about weapons.

“Right, well, I’m buggered,” Eames said, looking between the man and his companions. “Night all.”

The man nodded, smiling his same wry smile. His pale eyes looked empty to Eames, as though he had been drained completely. Eames felt like he was looking at a corpse, and a small shiver worked up his spine. 

What the hell was wrong with him? He was getting worked up over some shyster and his ridiculous entourage. The men would be fools to attack him openly; Mombasa was not the height of social justice, but there would still be a consequence for gunning him down. Besides which, what would the men want with him anyway? He was no one important, no one that they would bother themselves with. They had guns on them, who the hell _didn’t_?

Eames backed away from the table, watching the men carefully. He wanted to appear normal, like he hadn't noticed the guns or the man's pale, dead eyes. Then again, he didn't want to give them an opportunity to turn him into mince meat. The thought of his own unimportance did little to calm him when he was so sure he would turn and feel bullets rip into his back. 

“Is there a problem, Mr. Eames?” The man asked

“No, no,” Eames said, shaking his head with a bit too much vehemence. “No problem.”

“Goodnight, then.”

“Right, goodnight,” Eames said, quickly turning and walking to the front door. His cigarette smoldered in his fingers, and when he was outside he pitched it into the street. There was a swampy feeling to the air, clinging to him like a second skin. He was obviously jumping at shadows, behaving erratically; it was so unlike him. 

He hoofed over to his apartment, hardly five minutes from the bar; it felt more like five _years_ to Eames, moving through the hot Mombasa air. It clung to him like tar, and he shrugged himself out of his over-shirt as he walked, tossing it over his shoulder. 

Eames refused to look over his shoulder, refused to give in to paranoia. Because that was surely what it was: paranoia. There was no one following him, there was no reason to feel as though he were being stalked through the night. After all, what reason did the man and his goons have to chase after him? He had paid them their money.

A part of Eames _hoped_ the men would come. He had never been one to beg for a fight, but he had also never been the type to _refuse_ a fight. His blood was pumping, and he thought if the men _did_ come, he would be able to take at least one of them down before he was slaughtered. 

It was a wonderfully romantic way to die: swinging. Eames smiled as he climbed the rickety stairs to his apartment. ‘Apartment’ was being incredibly kind, where Eames lived -- actually, ‘lived’ was being kind as well -- was nothing more than a studio. He had enough room for a small sofa, a fridge, and a television set. Oh, and a rather handsome leather chair that faced the apartment's one small window. He was fond of that chair, loved to run his fingers over it...

Eames was beginning to think he needed a woman. 

He knew the moment he entered the room that he wasn't alone. It was completely dark, not even a shred of moonlight to light it, but he _knew_. He could feel someone in that darkness with him, he could smell the spiciness of some expensive cologne. Eames held his breath and pressed himself against the wall, though he knew it would be no good. The person had already heard him enter. There was no hiding. 

Eames debated between charging the room blindly and running away. But he couldn’t, running had never been in his blood. As it turned out, he was given no opportunity to do _either_.

“Good evening, Mr. Eames,” a smooth, cultured voice said from the shadows. The man in the darkness seemed perfectly at ease, but of course, _he_ hadn’t had his home broken into. “I was wondering if we could speak for a few minutes. I know it’s dreadfully late, but...Once you hear what I have to say, you might not mind our... _unorthodox_ meeting.”

“Bloody _unorthodox_ ,” Eames snapped, “That’s putting it mildly, eh? Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

There was a small chuckle, and the slight noise of fabric shifting against skin. Eames listened, intently, and then leapt at the intruder, catching the man around his middle. His _slender_ middle, as it turned out. What kind of man, probably weighing one hundred and forty pounds soaking wet, broke into someones home and _waited_ for them? Without any kind of protection?

“Mr. Eames,” the man whispered, and Eames could feel his breath against his throat, “I’m aware that you're a passionate man, but there will be time in the future to ravage me, if you like.”

“You’re really starting to piss me off, mate,” Eames grunted, “Who the fuck _are_ you?”

“Names are so trivial, really.”

“Well, you know mine,” Eames said, “Let’s make it even.”

The man sighed, his breath once more hot and heavy on Eames’ neck. “My name is Robert Fischer,” the man said, “Does that satisfy you, Mr. Eames?”

“No,” Eames said, “Keep talking.”

“It’s difficult to talk in this position,” Robert murmured, “Could you let me go? If you believe I intend to harm you, you're mistaken. Had I wanted to, I _would have_. You would be dead if that was why I was here.”

The man had a point. Not a point that Eames was particularly thrilled to _hear_ , but still. Eames released Robert, backing up from him slowly. 

“Do you know about dream share, Mr. Eames?”

What the _fuck_? 

The man was obviously from Cobol, but why would an agent be hunting him? Probably something to do with Cobb, that dim arsehole. Eames kept his composure, but just barely. 

“Who sent you?” Eames asked.

Robert laughed. There was something in that laugh that irritated Eames, the smugness perhaps. Or maybe it was the fact that it was a laugh that a man offered a slow, dimwitted child. _You don’t understand_ , that laugh said, _But it’s not your fault._

“ _I_ sent me,” Robert explained, “I’m curious about you. From what I’ve heard, there’s no one better in the business at...what you do. I've been assembling a little team to attempt a...tactical maneuver, if the phrase means anything to you. Call it a practice in self preservation.”

“I'd suggest you start making sense soon, _Mr. Fischer_ ,” Eames said, “I don't have all bloody night.”

“Actually, you do,” Robert said, “But I see your point. Let me make this as simple as possible. It’s come to my attention that I may be under...scrutiny. I can't tell _why_ , but the _reason_ doesn't matter. I’m in need of some counter-offense.”

“Why would someone be interested in you?”

“Plenty of reasons, all of them boring,” Robert said. “As I said before, the reason doesn't matter. What _matters_ is not allowing them the opportunity. I need someone of your skill to put a stop to it.”

“What could I do?” Eames asked. “If you're talking about dream share, there’s not a whole lot that---”

“Inception,” Robert said, and Eames forgot, for a moment, how to breathe. The word held a frightening kind of power over Eames; that power was hypnotic, damn _alluring_. When he thought of inception, Eames’ gut was twisted. Angry, lustful... He knew that inception _existed_ , but he had never known it to really _work_.

It hadn't worked for him.

“Inception,” Eames repeated, “Are you _daft_? What in God’s--- I can understand counter-offensive, but you're talking full blown nuclear _war. Bollocks_.”

“Can it be done?” Robert asked, ignoring Eames’ protests. 

If he were going to discuss such things with a total stranger, he at least needed to see the man's _face_. There was only so much he could gauge about Robert Fischer through his voice. If he could see his eyes, get a good look at them, Eames was sure he could understand more about him. 

Eames flicked on the small lamp by the window, fumbling for a few moments before his room was filled with warm, slightly dim light. He stared at Robert for what could have only been a few seconds, but what felt to Eames to be an interminable length of time. 

Robert was young, that was the first thing Eames noticed. Mid-thirties, if Eames had to guess. His bone structure was...unique. That was the only way Eames could think to describe it. Delicate features, but masculine contour. His jaw was broad, his eyelids were heavy, his nose was hawkish, but his lips were soft and his eyelashes were thick and curled. 

His eyes were an unnatural, startling blue. Eames had never seen eyes so blue. Unnaturally haunting, but unnaturally _beautiful_ if Eames was being honest. 

“Can it be done or not, Mr. Eames?” Robert asked, “I'd hate to hear I spent fourteen hours on a plane just to find out I’ve wasted my time.”

Eames dropped himself into his chair, stroking his fingers lovingly over the leather. It was a comfort to him, though he must have looked strange to Robert. “You're talking about something that you don't even understand,” Eames said. “You might as well come here and ask me about slaying dragons, Mr. Fischer--”

“I think you’re lying to me, Mr. Eames,” Robert said.

Eames heard the men enter his room before he saw their shadows stretch across his wall. He knew who they were, and refused to stand and meet them. The men he had played against earlier that night. 

He hadn't been paranoid after all. In some ways, that made Eames feel better. He felt as good as a man _could_ when faced with certain death. 

“Did you really think I would come here without an insurance policy, Mr. Eames?” Robert asked.

“Mr. Eames is my father,” Eames said dryly, smiling at them man humorlessly. “Drop the mister, eh?”

“There’s something you're not telling me,” Robert said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “ _Eames_. I have it on good authority that you know something about inception. That you have _experience_.”

“Who've you been talking to?”

“My contacts are my business,” Robert said, crossly. He sighed, and his face and voice softened. “Listen to me, Eames,” he said, “I want to do this as diplomatically as possible. I don't want to hurt you, I don't want my associates here to hurt you. But you need to level with me, Eames, you need to tell me what you know.” Those blue eyes looked at him, deep and lovely; “Please,” Robert said.

Eames looked away from Robert, not liking the way those eyes melted him. He had always been the one breaking people, the one forcing them to crumble and spill their guts, to give up their most guarded secrets. It seemed unjust that Robert would overpower him so easily. 

“It was a total failure,” Eames said, “I tried it before. Tried to go down deep, three levels. The team was too inexperienced. The whole thing was...completely fucked. Someone was trained, but it wasn’t us. The fucker was _militarized_ , and fucking _hard_. I figured it wasn't possible, but---”

“But?” Robert asked, poking and prodding in just the right tone. Soft, patient, infinitely _tender_. Eames knew when he was being guided, and it pissed him off that he was _allowing_ it. 

“It could be done,” Eames said, looking back at Robert, “ _Could be._ With the right team, the right finesse, the right _approach_. If we’d had more time to prepare, more time to get to know who we were doing it on.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Eames, but getting to know that target is _your_ job.”

Eames said nothing.

“Was it the failure of your team, or _your_ failure?” Robert asked, “Be straight with me, Eames.”

“It was my fault,” Eames snapped, “Are you fucking satisfied?”

“Were you young?”

“I was born old,” Eames said, “Didn't you know that? I came from the bleeding womb like this.”

“How young, Eames?” Robert prodded.

“Seven years ago,” Eames said, “Not young, but as far as being _mentally_ prepared. I was a goddamn _kid_.”

Robert walked over to where Eames sat and knelt before him. It would have been easy for Eames to take Robert by the throat and strangle the life out of him. But he knew if he even flinched a muscle, the men stationed behind him would open fire. They’d probably end up turning him _and_ Robert into mince meat, but Eames didn't doubt they'd do it all the same.

Robert, had, after all, come prepared. Possibly even prepared to die.

“You strike me as the kind of man who knows a good opportunity when he sees one,” Robert said, “Also, you seem the type who would want to redeem himself. I’m giving you another chance.”

“At what, exactly?” Eames asked.

“Inception,” Robert said, and Eames felt that same shiver run through his body. “I’ve been told you're the best, and that any team I build without you won't be worth anything. I always get what I want, Eames, one way or another.”

“Which means I don't have a choice here,” Eames said, looking into Robert’s eyes. He expected the man to blink first, or look away, but Robert stared back at him impassively. For such a small, meek looking man, he had balls. Eames could respect that, even if he wasn't fond of Robert’s methods. Not when they were used on _him_ anyhow. 

“You're as clever as they said," Robert said, smiling. “Will you come willingly? I'd hate for things to get messy.”

What could he do? If he moved so much as an inch, he would be shredded with bullets. He had no doubt that the men stationed behind him wouldn’t hesitate to unload on him. They were probably looking forward to it.

Inception had haunted him for years; haunted and seduced him. Eames thought it could be possible, with the right team and the right preparation. There would have to be intense care given to detail and planning. Looking at Robert, Eames couldn’t imagine he would hand over the reins willingly. He seemed to enjoy being in control. Eames, however, had never been an easy beast to tame.

“Fine,” Eames agreed. “Is this the part where you tie me up?”

“No,” Robert said. “That comes later.”

****

_Sydney, Australia_

Eames hadn’t expected Robert to spoil him so lavishly. The flat he was provided could fit his tiny room in Mombasa within it several times over. He almost lost himself there the first night, and he had only been stumbling to the bathroom for a piss. 

He listened to Robert talk about his father’s failing health, and the fate of his business. Eames listened to him, but not with as much attentiveness as Robert apparently desired, because the man grabbed his face -- like he were a small child -- and forced their eyes to meet. 

“I’m aware that most of this information might seem trivial to you, Eames. But it’s important. If it weren't important, I wouldn't have come to you, and I wouldn't be fighting against people I don't even _know_. So do me a favor and _listen_. That is what you do, isn't it? You watch and you _listen_.”

“Typically I know what the fuck I’m listening _for_ ,” Eames murmured.

“That’s bullshit,” Robert snapped. It was the first time Eames had seen his composure slip, the first time he had seen those blue eyes sharpen. “The job you do, you go in completely blind. You don't know what you're looking for until you _find it._ Don't insult my intelligence, Eames. I’m not a stupid man.”

Eames leaned back his chair, resting his face in his palm. It wasn't an invitation for Robert to continue, but Robert took it as one regardless. 

Eames could tell a great many things from watching the man, and from listening to him. He loved to posture, to flaunt his status _and_ his money. He loved to appear confident, always in control, on top of things. These were things he had probably learned from his father, the things that he probably resented in the man; the things Robert Fischer would see in himself when he was strong enough and courageous enough to face them.

Beneath all of that, Eames saw nothing more than a frightened little boy. He did not imagine that frailty to make Robert seem less imposing, or his threats less real; the truth was there in Robert’s eyes. 

“I don’t know who these people are who are coming after me,” Robert explained, “But I can only guess it has something to do with Fischer-Morrow.”

“Why not come after your father, then?” Eames asked, “He’s the head honcho around here, isn’t he? The Big Kahuna, if that pleases you. You're second fiddle. Or not even. _Third_? Your father is dying, if they were after the company, they'd just sit on their hands. Let him die, unless they--- Never mind.”

“What?” Robert asked, “Unless they _what_?”

“The whole point of inception is to plant an idea. _Subtly._ To never let the person know that the idea isn't their own. If the idea is related to, what was it, Fischer-Morrow? If it’s meant for you...someone isn’t happy about the thought of you taking the helm from your father.”

“ _Why_?” Robert asked, composure slipping away more and more. He looked harried, _flustered_ , without a single idea in his pretty little head. Eames rather liked him that way. “If, they, these people...if they wanted the company to fail, my taking over would be just what they wanted.”

“I don't really understand you, Robert,” Eames said, “You parade around like the King of the Castle, but then you sit there and tell me you don't even know if you can run a company. I wonder if you ever thought you could resort to kidnapping? You did alright with that.”

“It wasn't kidnapping,” Robert defended, but he would not meet Eames’ eyes. “It was...strategic. I convinced you to come along with me, Eames, that’s hardly kidnapping.”

“With guns," Eames said, chuckling when Robert flushed, “Hardly diplomatic of you, but then again, you also blackmailed me. With my own ego. That was a bloody _strategic_ thing to do.” 

“You don't sound as pissed as I expected you to,” Robert said.

“Why would I be?” Eames asked, standing and crossing to the minibar beside the bed. He rummaged around for a few moments before turning with two small bottles of vodka. “Can't tell you I was living the high-life, mate. I've taken worse jobs than this, and with less...benefits.”

“I trust you're referring to the apartment,” Robert said, watching Eames as he crossed the floor with the small bottles clinking in his hand. The only answer Eames gave him was a smile and a little wink before he sank into the chair and handed Robert one of the bottles. 

“A little early in the morning to be drinking,” Robert said.

“A little early in the morning to be _working_ , too,” Eames murmured. He unscrewed the cap and stuck the bottle out, inviting Robert to join him. “To...what would you say, Robert?”

“To...success," Robert said, “And an unusual partnership.”

“Cheers,” Eames laughed, clinking his bottle against Robert’s. 

****

_Mombasa, Kenya_

Cobb rechecked his notes for the hundredth time, wiping sweat off his brow as he looked at the address scratched in his messy handwriting. This was the place, no doubt about it. Eames would be inside, on the third floor. The bar he had visited earlier had been a bust; no one had seen Eames for at least a week, even though it had reputedly been one of his regular haunts. 

Cobb had a sinking feeling in his gut, though he couldn't explain why. Even if Eames weren't there, that didn't mean something had happened to him. Eames had always been a bit of a drifter, moving from place to place, living under assumed names. Cobb had always thought the man meant to protect himself with his behavior, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized Eames only enjoyed the game. 

There was something seductive about the lifestyle for Eames. No one really knew him. He was a chameleon, becoming whoever he pleased with very little effort. It was his job, after all, but Cobb thought it went deeper than that. It had not been the job of forging that had changed Eames into a perfect chameleon, rather Eames had been attracted to the job _because_ of his “talents.”

He wasn't sure why he was standing there thinking about why Eames did what he did, and why he might have taken off. It was a hundred and fourteen degrees, he was sweating like a hog, and he hadn't even checked Eames’ apartment. 

Sighing and tucking his notes into his back pocket, Cobb moved inside and made his way to the third floor. 

Eames’ apartment was unlocked, not a terrific sign, but not a terrible omen as his gut seemed to insist with its churning and knotting. Cobb pushed inside and looked around the small space, seeing nothing out of place. If Eames was gone, it was obviously of his own volition. Cobb could find no signs of a struggle, no sign that Eames had been taken by... 

That was the problem, Cobb had no idea _who_ would harm or abduct Eames. The man was more than a chameleon, he was a _ghost_ when he needed to be. He could more than be whoever he wanted to be; he could be no one at all. 

Eames wasn't there. 

There was no use searching the place. Quite honestly, there's wasn’t much “place” to search. Cobb did find a rather strange note on Eames end-table, however; it read simply _Gone Fishing._

Whatever _that_ meant.

****

_Sydney, Australia_

“You're talking about doing more than stopping inception,” Eames said, studying Robert as he twirled spaghetti around his fork. It was amazing, really. Robert was the only man Eames had ever known who could eat spaghetti without getting an ounce of sauce on his chin. Eames was fairly sure that meant the man was some kind of warlock. 

“I’m talking about a reversal,” Robert agreed, dabbing his mouth with a napkin -- though he needn't have bothered -- and taking a small sip of wine. “I have my sources, Eames, and I've heard that whoever is coming after me is well trained with dream share. _But not with inception._ Any team they assemble will be crippled without you. I’m suggesting you...catch them in their own trap.”

“Trap them there,” Eames said, honestly spell bound by Robert’s cunning and complete disregard for ethics and human suffering. Eames was a little turned on by the attitude, and he showed Robert this with his smile. “You really are a cheeky bastard, Robert. You realize that if they're trapped there...if they don't ride the kick...they’ll be there for years. _Decades_. I want you to understand what that means.”

“I understand,” Robert said, pale eyes unflinching, “Their minds will age, their _souls_ if you want to get poetic. They’ll wake up here, eventually, and their bodies will be the same. But inside they’ll know that they're ancient. It’s a cruel thing to do to a person. Almost inhuman.”

“But?” Eames asked.

“But I don't care,” Robert said, looking at Eames as though he meant to gauge his reaction, “I never asked to be pursued in this way, you understand. I never asked to be the target of their perverse little experiment. But I am, and that’s their mistake. This is war, Eames. Something tells me you're familiar with the concept.”

“I am,” Eames said, looking around the restaurant as though he suspected someone might swoop down on them. It was an irrational fear, but it was there, clawing at him all the same. 

“I’ve been thinking of all the people I know who're ballsy enough to take a stab at a job like this,” Eames continued, pausing to tear off a piece of bread and run it through the marinara sauce on his plate. He could see Robert was anxious for him to continue, and he smiled before popping the bread in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“ _And_?” Robert asked.

“Terribly sorry, mate. You know, they recommend you chew at least twenty three times. Bloody irritating, that.”

“Get on with it,” Robert snapped, “ _Who_?”

“Dentists? I don’t---’

“Who took the job?” Robert demanded, “I’m not in the mood for your games, Eames.”

“The only person I could think of who'd have the balls...who'd be desperate enough, is Cobb.”

“Cobb?”

“I've worked with him before. He’s...too serious for me, but a pretty well respected man in the business.” Eames smiled, “If I can use that word.”

“Why would he be desperate enough to take a job -- if I can use the word -- like this?” Robert asked, sighing and holding up his hand to silence Eames when he saw the waiter approaching. They both declined on dessert, but accepted another glass of wine. It was their fourth, and while Eames was sure Robert had a man saddled outside to chauffeur them back safely, he did not enjoy the way the wine blunted the edges of his thoughts. 

It was damn easy to get...confused in a situation like that. 

“Well?” Robert pressed.

“Well, what?”

“Why would he be desperate enough to take this job? And who’s behind _him_?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Robert,” Eames said, giving the waiter a smile when he returned with their wine. When the man was gone, he looked to Robert, his eyes heavy-lidded, blurry with wine. Eames could hardly think of whether or not he had remembered to brush his teeth that morning, let alone who might have hired Cobb, or why he was so desperate. Inception was a difficult job, most would even say _impossible_. The man was putting a lot on the line, with very little chance of success. 

Whatever fueled him had to be important, deeper than money and opportunity. As far as Eames knew, there was only one thing that made a man behave erratically and desperately besides money. 

Love. 

Love for what, or whom, was a mystery though. 

“I expect answers when I ask a question,” Robert said, “I don't want you to be fooled by the dinners and the apartment and the other...extravagances that I give to you; You're completely at _my_ disposal, Eames. If I find out you're keeping something from me---”

“Aw, pet, I wouldn't dream of _lying_ to you," Eames purred, pouring Robert more wine before filling up his own glass. “It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m afraid I’m insufferable by nature. Might be best to just take me home and get me into bed.”

“You can get yourself into bed,” Robert murmured. He wanted to appear detached, perhaps a little icy, but his eyes were trained on the table and his cheeks were flushed. Only slightly, but bright enough for Eames to notice. “Plying someone with liquor seems to only be good for one thing,” Robert continued.

“And it’s not information,” Eames said. He sighed and scooted his glass away. “What do you say we just leave?” Eames asked, “I’m not--- I’d like to leave.”

“Fine," Robert said. He caught the attention of the waiter and waved him over. “Sleep it off. I need you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow morning.”

“Great,” Eames groaned, resting his face in his hands.

****

“The main thing you’re lacking is _timing_ ,” Eames explained. “Call it whatever you want -- tactical maneuver, self preservation -- it’s bloody _difficult_.”

Robert seemed, at best, disinterested with what Eames was saying. His head was tipped back, his eyes closed, his feet kicked up on the coffee table. Eames had never seen him so... Relaxed. It was aggravating to say the least. Robert had been hounding him to come up with a concrete plan, both to fight back against inception and perform their own successfully. Now that Eames was getting down to the nitty gritty, so to speak, Robert seemed...blasé about the whole thing. 

“Robert?” Eames asked, and when Robert only sat there, Eames gripped his shoulder and shook him sharply. “ _Robert_?”

“What?”

“You look knackered,” Eames said, “Sorry to trouble you with all the technical mumbo-jumbo, but this _is_ what you kidnapped me to do.”

“Kidnapped," Robert laughed.

“Well, you didn't _hire_ me,” Eames snapped, squeezing Robert’s shoulder a little tighter. He could feel just how thin and frail the man was, his bone sharp and vulnerable under Eames’ hand. It would have been easy to dislocate his shoulder if Eames wanted to, but he _didn’t_. That was the most aggravating thing, actually. 

He didn’t want to.

“I’m listening to you,” Robert sighed, shrugging out of Eames’ hand. “I wasn't aware I had to _look_ at you. Is your self-esteem that fragile?”

“No, but my patience is,” Eames said.

"The timing," Robert said. He sat forward and turned his eyes to Eames. Spending nearly every day with the man for the past two weeks had afforded Eames little defense against Robert's eyes. There was an unnatural power to them, something that was both cold and intensely hot. Eames looked away from him, no matter how much he had protested Robert's lack of interest. "The timing is simple," Robert continued, "We wait for them to make the first move. All I can do is defend myself to the best of my -- well, really, _your_ ability -- and hope that I can fight them."

"It's not that simple," Eames argued, "If it were that simple, you wouldn't even need me. You're militarized, aren't you? To you, they're nothing more than...what? _Viruses_. Viruses that your body and mind will naturally fight off. You need me because..."

"You can't finish that sentence," Robert said, smiling coyly, pale blue eyes almost _glinting_ , "And it scares the hell out of you."

Eames had a sudden desire to punch the man, to see if that smug smile of his would shatter along with his teeth. His hand fisted to do just that, but he restrained himself. It had nothing to do with any kind of professional loyalty; quite frankly, Eames would have knifed Robert and tossed him into the river with the promise of a Shepherd’s Pie. What did stay his hand was the promise of inception. 

The word remained powerful for him. 

“You need me because I’m damn good bait,” Eames said, and the way Robert flinched let him know that he was right. It felt good, bringing the man down a few pegs. Robert had likely convinced himself that he was too smart for a man like Eames to figure out. Too crafty for someone to ever catch hold of. He looked to Eames like a rabbit who had just gotten its foot caught in a trap. "Isn't that right, mate? I'm just a tasty morsel to lure whoever is behind this into the open."

"That's, that is completely---"

"True?" Eames asked, "Of course it is. Don't fret so, pet. It's so _beneath you_."

Robert's right hand curled into a fist. That, too, was beneath him, but Eames was intrigued by the idea that Robert could be so easily angered. He had never struck Eames as the violent sort... But every man had his breaking point, and it seemed Eames had nearly driven Robert to it. 

Robert's face, so usually controlled and china-doll white, was brick red and furrowed in anger. He pushed himself up from the sofa and paced around the living room. Eames had never seen him so animated; he watched Robert with great amusement and interest. 

"You think you know what I--- You don't know _anything_ about what I'm doing. And that's the way it's supposed to be, you understand? I don't want you to be confused, Eames." Robert stopped, shoved his fingers through his hair, and snapped his head around to put his eyes on Eames. "You're entirely expendable. I brought you here to assist me, but if it turns out you can't..."

"You'll, what, _kill_ me?" Eames asked, "I doubt that."

" _Why_?"

"Because you're a coward," Eames said, "You're a pretty little rich boy who's always had his way. I've heard your sob story a million times before. You've had everything you've ever wanted, but daddy never loved you. Never hugged you as a kid, or supported you. Blah blah blah. The thing is that you don't have the _balls_ to do anything."

"I had the _balls_ to come and find you," Robert snapped, "I had the _balls_ to strong arm you into coming here with me. Believe me, Eames, I have the balls to do almost anything."

"Let's see, sweetheart," Eames purred. 

"What are you talking about?"

"There's a pistol in your jacket," Eames said, his voice casual and without a hint of fear or uncertainty. "You carry it around everywhere you go. Probably because you're paranoid...most rich people are paranoid, yeah? Anyway, go ahead and use it. I'm expendable, aren't I? You have the _balls_ don't you?"

"You haven't proven yourself incapable of assisting me," Robert said, visibly shaken. His hand trembled, and he hid it in the pocket of his jacket. " _If_ you ever do...then I'll take you up on your generous offer."

Eames sat forward, frowning slightly. "I don't like when we fight, darling," he said, patting the cushion beside him. "Come on, let's not do this."

"There are two ways you can address me," Robert said coolly, though Eames noticed the hint of a blush on his face. It was likely he was flushed out of anger, but it was just as likely he was a bit sexually flustered by Eames' pet names. "Robert or Mr. Fischer," Robert continued, "I'm more partial to the latter."

"Seems awful formal," Eames said, "But alright. _Mr. Fischer_. I'm too hung over to argue with you. So let's just get back to what we were discussing."

"Fine. The timing. Like I said---"

"The _team_ ," Eames interrupted, "You explained the timing fairly well. I don't know what you've been told about me, Robert...probably some fancy rubbish, but I'm not capable of doing a job like this all on my own. We need a team...and I don't mean those boys you had with their semi-automatics. A team well trained with dream share."

"That's a matter for another time," Robert said, "The team comes when you have the opportunity to attempt inception for yourself. For now, _you're_ my team, Eames, and I expect you to handle things. To...protect me."

Had Robert's flush deepened? It was hard to tell. Robert turned away from him and looked out the window. He watched the traffic crawl twenty stories below, and when he spoke his voice was softer. He seemed much more vulnerable. Eames couldn't understand him, couldn't _trust_ him. 

"You're right, though," Robert said, "About me. My father didn't hug me." Robert laughed, a touch bitterly if Eames were being honest, and shrugged. "Not that he's ever hugged _anyone_. But if you're thinking that... _influenced_ me to be this way, you're wrong. I don't like being harassed, Mr. Eames, and that's just what's going on here. If these people wanted my money, I wouldn't fight them this hard. They want something more though, don't they?"

"It's not a kind of stealing," Eames said, "It's more like... Breaking and entering. But they _leave_ something."

"That's even worse," Robert said, "It's... _perverse_."

"Watch your mouth, love, that's my bread and butter."

"No offense intended," Robert said, smiling at his own reflection in the window, "But you have to admit it's terribly _invasive_."

"Invasive and perverse are two different things," Eames said, "One man's obscenity is another man's art. Who said that?"

"Neil Gaiman, and don't change the subject," Robert said, "You're making excuses for the kind of work you do." 

"Inception is a rare thing," Eames explained, "That's not really what I do." 

"It's part of what you do."

"A small part," Eames defended, "Look, darling---"

"Robert," Robert interrupted, "Or Mr. Fischer."

"Look, _Robert_ , if what I do is so perverse, why exactly am I _here_?"

"Do you know what a man does when he wants to catch a thief, Eames?"

"Buys himself a dog?"

"No," Robert said, "He finds another thief. _That's_ what you do when you need to catch someone, you get someone who _knows_. Someone who has the same kind of experience."

"So I _am_ bait," Eames said, sounding halfway between pissed and amused. "You could have spared me the riddle and just said so, _darling_."

"Bait is a harsh word," Robert said. "But I suppose you've earned the right to be a little harsh with me, Eames. You're more than that, though, if it's any consolation. You're a helpful man to have around, particularly in a matter like this."

"You do a lot of fancy talking for a man who deals in kidnapping and emotional blackmail, Mr. Fischer," Eames said, and he knew Robert could hear the venom in his voice from the way he flinched and shrunk away. 

Not a Big Bad Wolf after all; Eames was glad to see it. Men were much easier to deal with when they were weak and backed into a corner. "I'm going to ask you something, and I want the truth. No lies, no bullshit, no conning. You can't con a con-man, Robert, and I want you to keep that in mind before you answer me."

"What is it?"

"After all of this is over -- not just the attack on _you_ but my _own_ little second chance at inception -- what are you planning on doing with me?" Eames watched Robert look away from him, and he had his answer. Still, he needed to hear it, he needed to _know_. "Are you going to kill me? What's the matter, afraid I'll look too closely at some top secret material? Afraid I'll go to the press and tell them how Robert Fischer, son of the Great and Powerful Maurice Fischer, consorts with hit men and mercenaries? Or are you just afraid of having someone _know_ you, Robert, warts and all?"

"It's not like that," Robert defended. He sounded petulant, like a child whose favorite toy has been taken away from him. Or one whose been found with his hand in the cookie jar. "I don't want to hurt you. I _never_ wanted that. I never wanted _any_ of this, and you know that. But my hand is being forced, Eames, and I can't afford to have anyone know---"

"You think too much," Eames interrupted, pushing himself up from the sofa. His vision was still a bit blurry, his steps still a bit lumbering from his excess the previous evening, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He crossed to where Robert stood, and for a moment - a moment even Robert didn't recognize - Robert shrank from him. 

"Don't get too close," Robert warned, "I'm never caught unprepared, Eames, if you try to hurt me--"

Eames silenced Robert with a kiss. It was brief and soft, but it was enough to force the man to shut his mouth. "Let's make a deal," Eames murmured, "I'll do what I can to protect you from this boogeyman that's after you, and you won't get in my way once everything is settled. You let me go, understand, and I'm _gone_. No press, no dirty laundry, no skeletons getting yanked out of the closet. I'm a _ghost_ Robert...and you're untouched."

"I can't trust you," Robert whispered. His words did not correspond with his body, which shifted closer to Eames. 

"And I can't trust _you_ ," Eames said, "So we're even. I've been known to take a fellow at his word though, once or twice. We'll call it a gentleman's agreement."

"You'll keep your mouth shut?" Robert asked.

Eames pressed his lips together and mimed a key locking them together. 

"A ghost," Robert said, studying Eames closely. After a few moments, he sighed, "Fine."

"Gentlemen tend to shake on these kinds of deals," Eames said. 

"What do men like us do, then?" Robert asked.

Eames smiled, "I'll show you."

**** 

The one good thing about Robert was that he served as an excellent distraction; particularly when he was naked. Eames watched him sleep, though he tried to avoid being a total creep and hovering over the man. There was simply nothing else to watch, really, and Robert was damn pretty with his hair all sweaty and swept over his eyes and his cheeks flushed. It wasn't that Eames had been unable to resist the man, but that he had seen no _point_ in resisting. There were certain things that he had to do, that he was compelled to do, and then there were things that he did just for the sake of _doing_ them.

Robert was, of course, a member of the latter. 

Eames couldn't say he didn't like the way Robert Fischer kissed and made love; that would be a lie. That didn't mean, however, that he had _needed_ him. It had been one hell of a nice way to spend an afternoon; that was the most Eames could say about it. 

With Robert sleeping, and his own mind hazy at best, Eames thought some on what lay ahead of him. He wasn't concerned about the job with Fischer, or who might be behind it, he was more concerned about his own chance to try inception. He had told Robert that he had the opportunity once before and he had blown it -- but that was only half true. The truth of the matter was, Eames hadn't had the stomach or the experience for what inception _really_ entailed, and he was worried that he might still be without the proper resources.

Namely, the ability to throw his moral compass in the trash. It was almost laughable to think that Eames could possess any kind of strong moral fiber, but he was only human. There were certain things that gave him pause, and there were certain things that he _knew_ were just plain rotten. Inception was one of those things -- sneaking through someone’s mind, turning their own thoughts into time-bombs that would either explode and be the death of them, or simply sit there ticking forever. 

He had never been particularly sentimental or empathetic, but even he could see that there was something horribly wrong with inception. Even still, he had accepted Robert's proposal. Granted, he had had guns pointed at him by three very brutish men, but the point was he _wanted_ to try again. Ego, vanity, no matter what the reason was, he had the desire for it. 

Eames had always been terrible at denying himself the things he desired, no matter how morally ambiguous. 

As far as the job on Fischer went, there wasn't much to be done. They lacked the resources and the knowledge to construct any kind of preemptive strike, and Robert seemed content to lay in wait for his pursuers. Eames had told the man that he thought the man coming after him might be Cobb, but there was no way to know for sure. Cobb had always been the kind of man to seize an opportunity when he saw one, but Eames had never known him to be reckless. 

That was why he was there though, beyond his supposed skill and talent. Eames was bait to draw out the people who wanted to wend their way through Fischer's subconscious. Humility had never been Eames' strong suit -- he knew that he was damn good at what he did, and any team without him on board would be piss poor at best, and possibly hazardous at worst. 

They would come for him, eventually, whoever _they_ were. 

In the meantime, Eames watched Robert, pushing back his hair from his forehead and looking at his pretty face. That face was deceptive, Eames knew. Robert was a crafty, scheming son of a bitch, and Eames doubted he would hesitate to dispose of him if it suited his interests. 

It was almost something to be _proud_ of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Breaking And Entering  
>  **Author:** crimsonkiss21  
>  **Artist:** ruins_of_sodom  
>  **Word Count:** 16,965   
> **Rating:** R  
>  **Pairing:** Eames/Robert  
>  **Warnings:** Mild sexual content, nudity, adult language, violence, character death(s)
> 
> First and foremost I want to give much love, appreciation and heaps of adoration to ruins_of_sodom, not only for his amazing artwork,but for his tireless assistance in actually making this story possible. He's an incredible friend to ping ideas off of, and most of the time, he's my brain when my own brain is full of mush. So thanks to Dan for being such an inspiration, incredible sounding board, and the kick in the ass I needed to get this story finished. Seriously, bb, if I had the time and resources, I'd be building a shrine in your honor.
> 
> I also want to thank kick_back_80s for their fabulous betaing job! :D
> 
> Critique is always welcome! :D


	2. If This Were The Movies...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Recruited" by Robert to form a counter-offense against inception and the team behind it, Eames finds himself biting off more than he can chew with his feisty new employer. While Cobb and his team prepare for their inception on Robert, Eames and Fischer find themselves testing the boundaries of their complicated relationship. Used to getting a job done, quickly and efficiently, Eames is disturbed by just how much he wants to protect Robert.

****

_Mombasa, Kenya_

The room was dark except for a small bulb that hung from the ceiling, swinging back and forth as a fan churned loudly in the corner. Any light afforded by the bulb was dim at best, and Cobb traced the his own shadow up the wall as he sat across from the figure in front of him. He could smell marijuana on the air, and it seeped through his pores and untethered his thoughts. 

"You're looking for the Forger," the man across from him said. His voice was thickly accented and emphysematic, and he coughed into his fist before continuing. "He was here a few weeks back. Everyone liked him, no one trusted him. Smelled like trouble."

"That'd be him," Cobb agreed. 

"Took off with some fancy white boy," the man said. He chuckled softly; this threw him into another coughing fit, longer and deeper than the first. "Australia, so I heard. Could be I know how you could get into contact with him. Could be I forgot, though."

Cobb reached into the breast of his coat and took out his wallet. "What's your memory worth?" Cobb asked. 

"Ten thousand," the man wheezed.

" _Dollars_?" Cobb asked.

"No, _sunflower seeds_ ," the man said.

"You'll get your money," Cobb sighed. "Tell me what you know." 

"Seems like a lot of people want this Forger," the man murmured, "You know why that is?"

"He's good at what he does," Cobb said, "Tell me what you know."

"Sydney, so I heard. Fancy boy he left with talked some about setting him up in a nice apartment. Could be one of my boys found out _where_."

"I need a number," Cobb said, "Not an address. Is there any particular reason you thought you'd _need_ this information?"

"No one trusted him," the man repeated, leaning forward in his chair. It creaked loudly under his weight. "I don't ask you about your work, Mr. Cobb....You'd be wise not to ask about mine."

"A number," Cobb urged, suddenly very aware of the fact that he couldn't see a goddamn thing in that room, that he could only _feel_ how heavy and damp the air was. The marijuana was starting to dull his senses, a dangerous thing considering who was hunting him and how little time he had to get away. 

Someone had gotten to Eames before him. Cobb had no idea _who_ , but it was obvious that Eames had gone willingly. Cobb had never known him to be strong-armed into a job before. 

He could only hope that Eames would feel a certain obligation to assist him.

Cobb was fairly sure he was screwed. 

****

The phone rang at a quarter to four in the morning. 

Eames had been expecting the call for more than a week, sure that whomever was courting Robert would eventually find a way to track him down. He thought there could be a number of voices he might hear when he answered, a thousand different people who might fall on him in a time of need, mostly out of desperation. But still, he thought the most likely candidate would be Cobb. It was a gut feeling, and Eames had always trusted his gut. 

"Hello?"

"I want to say first that I'm glad I finally found you. Also, you're a shit, Eames."

Eames laughed, and he felt Robert shift against him. Likely the man hadn't been expecting him to laugh when the call finally came. He wanted Eames to lure Cobb to them, but he also wanted Eames to be cold and mechanical when it came to his dealings with the man. Eames had never been built that way, though, and if Cobb noticed an iciness to his demeanor, he'd hang up and count his losses before Eames even knew what the hell he was up to. 

"I would ask how you got this number," Eames said, "But of course I know how resourceful you are. So tell me what you wanted, Cobb. It's early on this side of the world."

"First you answer _my_ question," Cobb redirected, "What are you even _doing_ on that side of the world, Eames?"

It was a fair question, one that Eames had anticipated, and one that he had never quite come up with an answer to. The truth was impossible, and he knew that. Had the circumstances been different, the truth _still_ would have been impossible. Eames much preferred to formulate his _own_ brand of truth. He had heard that if a man repeated a lie enough it would become his truth. There was a certain kind of poetry to that belief. 

"Didn't know I needed a reason to take a vacation," Eames said.

"Your _life_ is a vacation," Cobb said, not unkindly. He sighed into the receiver, and Eames could imagine him rubbing his temple to try and ward off a migraine that was nothing more than a slight throbbing behind his eyes. It had been a long time since Cobb had taken a vacation, obviously, probably longer since he'd gotten laid. Something had to give, Eames thought, or Cobb was apt to turn up dead. Stress was a killer, particularly for people in _their_ business. 

It had a habit of dulling their razor-sharp skills. With Cobol hunting him, Cobb didn't have much room for maneuvering as it was. Eames wanted to tell him to relax, but the best he could do was wait for Cobb to say something. The silence stretched between them, over the sea and between the continents. 

"You know I wouldn't call you unless I needed something," Cobb said, reluctantly. He had never been one to swallow his pride. "This isn't something I really want to talk about over the phone, though."

"You're free to come and see me," Eames said, feeling a small twinge of regret at the words. He didn't want to be malicious, least of all towards Cobb, but there was nothing he could do about it. Cobb wouldn't come because he knew. He knew already, and this phone call was nothing but a desperate attempt. Eames hated himself, just a little, for mocking the man's vulnerability.

"Tell me what you know about inception," Cobb said, voice clipped and icy. The pleasantries were apparently over.

"Inception," Eames said. Robert pulled away from him when he heard the word, sitting on the edge of the bed. "What would you want to know about inception, mate? The fact that it's bloody dangerous to even think about, or the fact that it's damn near impossible?"

"That word doesn't really exist in my vocabulary, Eames," Cobb said, "Maybe I shouldn't be asking you about inception. Maybe I should just be asking if you're willing to help me or not."

"Oh, well, I'm not sure about that," Eames evaded, "It's been a busy time for me, you understand--"

"I wasn't born yesterday," Cobb snapped, "What the hell are you doing out there, Eames? Who got to you? Either you're in trouble, or you're _causing_ trouble."

"I really don't know what you're talking about. Back to the subject of inception...don't even try it. I'm telling you, it's dangerous business. It's dangerous even to think of it."

"Eames--"

"You know me," Eames said, "I'm a man who's familiar with odds. The odds are my life, yeah? So just trust me when I say the odds for pulling off inception are about the same as your odds of being struck by lightning twice."

"The odds don't matter," Cobb said. There was something off about his voice. Eames couldn't quite put his finger on it. Cobb sounded determined, which was nothing new, but there was a _hollowness_ to his words and his voice. Mechanical, in a way, like he had taken his hands from the wheel a long while ago and left himself up to chance. 

Chance was a dangerous thing, too.

"What matters is that I'm going to do this," Cobb continued, "With or without your help."

"What's the job, exactly?" Eames asked. "I'm not agreeing to it just yet, mind you, but inquiring minds want to know."

"You don't get anything from me until you agree to be on board," Cobb said. "You know better than that, Eames."

_Fuck_ , he was as smart as ever.

"Let me rephrase that," Eames said, "Why would you accept this kind of job?" What he really wanted to ask was, _Who bought you_?, but there was no chance Cobb would answer _that_ either. 

"Let me ask _you_ something," Cobb said, "Who did you run off with?"

"What--"

"You made a lot of friends over here," Cobb said, "Like most of your 'friends' they sold you out for the right price."

"Like most of my friends they're talking out of their ass," Eames said, "I didn't run off with anyone." Eames glanced at Robert. For some reason, he knew the man was smiling. Impossible to know from the back of his head, but he _did_ know.

"I need an answer," Cobb said. 

The conversation was completely fucked. Eames had long since lost control of it. With anyone else he could have redirected them, steered them in the right direction, sweet talked them into giving him the information he wanted. With Cobb, though, none of his usual tactics worked. The man was just too goddamn smart and familiar with his strategies.

"I guess that'd be a no," Eames said. 

Cobb hung up without another word. Eames sat there with the phone against his ear for a few minutes, reflecting on how spectacularly _shitty_ the experience had been. He had learned nothing, but his suspicions had been right. He knew that it was Cobb on the job, and that meant that Robert was in a bit of trouble. 

Cobb, too, was damn good at what he did. 

"You didn't learn anything," Robert said. Eames wasn't sure if the man meant it as a question or an accusation. 

"No," Eames sighed. "It was a long shot, love."

Robert laughed, with little humor. "You'll be honest with me, won't you?"

"Sure."

He looked at Eames over his shoulder, pale eyes more naked than Eames had ever seen them. Robert was afraid. For the first time since they had met, his fear was palpable, coming off of him in waves. "Am I completely fucked?"

"Not completely," Eames said with a smile, "Just _mostly_."

 

**Part Two**

Time was running out. It was not something Eames knew, but something he _felt_. Eames had always prided himself on his ability to sense things, but he had never relied solely on his gut before. Circumstances were different, however, and he knew that Cobb was preparing himself. A week, a month, surely no longer than that.

Eames noticed that Robert had been spending most of his time elsewhere lately. It struck him as strange that Robert would want to be alone _now_ of all times. They were rapidly approaching the jumping off point -- for want of a better term -- and Eames wanted Robert where he could see him, preferably at all times. 

When he asked the man where he disappeared to, Robert dismissed him. “Nowhere important,” Robert would lie, all the while refusing to meet Eames’ eyes. “Just business, you understand?”

He understood, but that didn't mean he approved. If it was ‘business’ that Robert was attending to, why didn't he bring Eames along? It obviously wasn't that he didn't trust Eames, more that he didn't want to reveal what he was doing until he was absolutely sure it was necessary. Which meant that Eames couldn't trust _him_. Either they were going to be straight with one another (the terminology managed to bring a wry smile to Eames’ face despite the importance of the situation) or the entire thing was off. 

There were many ways to make Robert confess what he was doing on his little trips. At first, Eames tried being direct, demanding Robert tell him what he was up to. When that earned him nothing more than a little smile from Robert, Eames resorted to dirtier tactics. There was a bit of skin, surely no larger than an inch, just behind Robert’s ear, that, when kissed, caused the man to vibrate with the most delicious shudders. 

Eames kissed and sucked that inch for nearly ten minutes until Robert was nothing more than melted butter in his arms. And then he whispered to him, “I'd like to know where you go off to, love.”

“Mmm, chemist,” Robert murmured, his voice sounded almost inebriated. His arms wound around Eames’ neck. 

“Ahh. That wasn't so hard, was it? You could have told me _that_. I was worried you were planning on sticking a knife in my vitals.”

“I've got something better for your vitals,” Robert said, speech still inaudibly slurred. His hand fumbled with his trousers, fingers slipping over the zipper. Eames chuckled and swatted his hands away, undoing Robert’s trousers before he managed to hurt himself. 

“That’s awfully vulgar of you,” Eames said, “I’m kind of shocked, _Mr._ Fischer.”

“On your back,” Robert said, ignoring Eames’ mocking. He was in no mood, apparently. 

Or rather, he was in the wrong kind of mood. 

****

The chemist was necessary. 

It was not only that the chemist was necessary, but that tracking down _Cobb’s_ chemist was. The person Cobb was using to put them under, to actually let them enter Fischer’s subconscious, would be vital to their plans.

Dream sharing was a tricky business, not least of all because the actual dose of the stuff that put them under would have to be powerful enough to last, but not so powerful that they might overdose or be lost in the dream. A strong kick was good enough... _usually_.

What Eames wanted was a chemist with the ability to put some under deep, and provide others with a lighter dose. He had known, the minute he had found out it was Cobb attempting inception, that his man would be Yusuf. 

Eames had had some dealings with the man, had found him to be a fairly easy-going gent. Robert needn’t have resorted to such stealthy tactics, actually. Had he asked Eames, the entire thing would have been cleared up in a matter of minutes. Still, he had managed to locate Yusuf without Eames' assistance, and with the right amount of pressure (an ungodly sum of money that Robert was too embarrassed to even tell Eames) Yusuf had agreed. 

“He told me there is a way for the dosage to vary, even in that kind of environment. It’ll take some doing, but he assured me he can manage it. Didn't sound too worried about betraying his employer, either. No loyalty among thieves, I suppose.”

“Not thieves,” Eames corrected, for what felt like the millionth time. “I told you. They’re not stealing anything, they're leaving something behind. Again, darling, it’s closer to breaking and entering than actual _thievery_.”

“He told me something else,” Robert said, ignoring Eames’ condescension. Likely they had spent so much time together that he no longer even _noticed_. “He told me that we’d better be careful; Cobb’s formed himself an extremely skilled team. O Great and Powerful Eames or not, he’s managed to do some excellent recruiting.”

“Bollocks,” Eames muttered, throwing himself face down on the bed. Theatrics, of course, but the result was what he wanted. Robert laid down beside him, stroking his fingers from the small of Eames’ back to the nape of his neck. _Perfect_. 

“Not surprised,” Eames said, voice muffled against the bed. “He always had the luck of the Devil. Or else he’s just bloody smart. I don’t think so though. In this business, luck is always better.”

“Either way,” Robert said, “We’ll be ready. I trust you more than anyone he might have found.”

“Aww, listen to you.”

“I know what makes a man like you jump through hoops,” Robert whispered, breath tickling Eames’ ear. 

“Mmm, yeah,” Eames agreed, laying his cheek against the bed. “That cute little ass of yours.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Robert chuckled. “I don't have the narcissism to think my body has anything to do with it. _Money_ , though. Or a promise of a second chance. I can play on your pride a lot easier than I can your horniness.”

“Aww, you're an ass,” Eames muttered. “Brilliant.”

“ _Shrewd_ ,” Robert corrected. “That’s what a businessman has to be, right?”

“Also practical,” Eames said. “There’s always practicality. A businessman is nothing if he doesn't think about all of his options.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you don't _have_ to get on a plane.”

“My father's body is going to Los Angeles. You're suggesting I don't need to be with it...him...when it, when _he_ \--”

“You're getting frustrated,” Eames said. The corner of his lips turned up in a crooked smile. He smoothed Robert’s hair back from his forehead like he was some kind of disconsolate child. He could feel from the way Robert fidgeted against him that he didn't appreciate it much. “Your father was an ass. A grand ass. The grandest ass of all the grand asses there have ever _been_.”

“You didn't know my father,” Robert whispered. 

“You told me all about him, without telling me,” Eames said. “You’re an open book, darling.”

“I still don't see your point--”

“The _point_ I am so elegantly trying to make is that you don’t _have_ to go. There are people who could do that for you. What's the point of it? You get there and there’ll be all of these people around, trying to coddle you. Or worse, pretending you don't exist. Even in death, Maurice Fischer knows how to make an entrance and steal the show.”

“I wish you'd just stop,” Robert said, pulling away from Eames. “I wish you'd just shut up about things you don't understand.”

“I wish you'd stop playing the martyr and _listen to me_ ,” Eames said, grabbing Robert’s shoulders, forcing the man to stay put. Robert tried to fight him, weakly, but ended up just sitting there with his head down. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” Eames murmured, softening his grip on Robert. “What I’m trying to do is tell you that your life is _your life_.”

Robert refused to look at him. He had spent his entire life as the spoiled, snarky, slightly bratty child of a very wealthy, very powerful man. He had played that part so long, maybe he didn't know he could be anything else. Eames felt a little sorry for him. He also felt like shaking some sense into his pretty head. 

“Maybe that’s what it's all about,” Eames said, “Not living your life for him anymore. But if you want to get on that plane, if you want to surrender yourself to inception just to prove a point, I’ll be with you.” He leaned in close to Robert, forcing the man's chin up. “Money is a great incentive. So is the promise of a second chance. But I could say being in love with you is a better incentive. Sort of. It’s fifty-fifty at least.”

“You’re a shit,” Robert said. 

“That language is just uncalled for. Look at me, pouring my heart out to you, and that's what you say.” Eames clicked his tongue and frowned seriously. “You're a bully, that’s what you are.”

“You don't love me,” Robert said. Eames looked for some kind of sign that he was, in fact, being stubborn and not just an unfeeling ass. But no, Robert honestly didn't believe him. Well, wasn't that perfect. The one time he decided to tell the truth.

“Don't get on that plane,” Eames said. If Robert couldn't believe him, that was beside the point. The last thing Eames wanted to see was Robert heading into something that was completely over his head. “Do whatever you like otherwise. Toss me out of here, get your underwear in a bunch, throw a hissy fit. But _don’t_ get on that plane. Your father's _dead_. He can’t control your life anymore.”

Robert’s fist connected with Eames’ belly. _That_ was funny. Eames had thought Robert would have slapped him. He seemed the type. Anything to be overly dramatic. But no, he punched like a championship boxer. Or at least that was what it felt like.

“You don't love me,” Robert repeated. “Any person who loved me would never say that to me. _God_ , I’m such an idiot. I thought you'd _actually_ help me. _You_.”

“Robert--” Eames tried to say more, but Robert really _did_ have a mean jab, and Eames was having a little trouble catching his breath. Besides, Robert was leaving, not even bothering to throw on a robe or snag his trousers from the foot of the bed. He walked naked to the door, long, gangly limbs looking absolutely perfect. 

Eames hated him. He hated him so much he fucking _loved_ him, and if the little prince couldn't believe _that_ , he was an idiot.

“You could never love someone, because you could never _trust_ someone,” Robert told him. It suddenly felt a few degrees colder in the room. “You’re the most heartless sonofabitch I've ever met,” Robert said. He left and slammed the door behind him. 

He took all the air in the room with him.

****

“I’m not going,” Robert said. 

Eames could focus just enough to see his shape in the doorway. It was too dark to make out more than his silhouette. “Good,” Eames said, voice thick with sleep. “Come to bed, then.”

“No,” Robert said, “I just wanted to tell you. It’s not because of you, either. Or anything you said to me. It’s because _I_ made the decision I don't want to go.”

“Good,” Eames repeated, “So, then, what now?”

“Now, nothing,” Robert said. “You can go, wherever you like. Go back to Mombasa. Go to the moon for all I care.”

“Not going to protect your reputation?” Eames asked. “I could go to anyone and tell them how Robert Fischer kidnapped me, held me hostage for a month. Fucked me silly. The tabloids will go wild over that last one.”

“I don't care,” Robert said, “I’m tired of everything. I’m tired of _caring_. I’m tired of _you_.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Eames said. What he _wanted_ to say was that he was sorry, he had obviously crossed some kind of line when he had talked about Robert’s father. The man had obviously been a scumbag, but that didn't mean he'd had the right to tell _Robert_ that. Robert already knew it, and he didn't seem too keen about anyone thinking that way about Maurice Fischer besides him. 

He couldn’t apologize though. It wasn't that he couldn’t bring himself to do it, of course he could. Eames was prideful, but not when it came to his lovers. He could bring himself to do most anything when it came to sharing a bed with someone. What he couldn't do was apologize for telling someone the truth. No matter how hurtful and tactless the truth might have been. 

“I don't care about that either,” Robert said. He sighed, leaning against the door frame. “I imagine you’ll want to be paid, job or no job. That’s fine.”

“Keep your bleeding money,” Eames snapped. He thought there must have been someone controlling his voice when the words registered, but no, he had said them. Robert certainly had a way of bringing out the queerest sides of him.

It was slightly adorable that Robert believed their time together was finished. Also, that he believed Cobb and whomever his employer was would give up so easily. When it turned out that Robert _wasn’t_ on the plane, escorting his father’s body, Cobb would be pissed. Cobb angry was Cobb dangerous. His next course of action would be far less tactical and far more desperate. 

“He’ll find a way to get at you,” Eames said, “Maybe not inception, maybe just off the little rich boy. That ought to do it. Maurice Fischer _and_ his little brat, gone and good riddance. I imagine whoever hired Cobb won’t care one way or the other _how_ you're gotten rid of.”

“If you're trying to scare me, you're not trying hard enough,” Robert said.

“I wouldn't want to scare you,” Eames said, “You have this bad habit of assuming I’m being an ass, even when I’m _not_. Also, you seem to think every word that comes out of my mouth is a lie. I’ll have you know I tell the truth on occasion.”

“You wouldn’t know the truth if it tied you up and spanked you.”

“Kinky thought, but I’m being serious,” Eames said. “If you’ll pull your head out of your arse long enough to _listen_ to me, I think you might want to consider keeping me around.”

Robert remained silent. There was tension in that silence, but there was also attentiveness. He was listening. 

“When they see you're not where they want you to be, they’ll panic. Cobb will want to rally his team, but by that point, most of them will abandon ship.” Eames thought for a moment before adding, “Except Arthur. He's a wet blanket, that one, but his loyalty to Cobb is bordering on fanatical.” 

“Why pursue this?” Robert asked, “If they all abandon him, what’s the point? What’s he going to do?”

“Like I said. The progression might be outright murder. You're the ante in their deal.”

“What deal?”

Eames shrugged. “Something worth all of this bullshit. Money, that’s a powerful thing, but there are other things that’ll force a man to try anything.”

“What will my death accomplish?”

“I don’t know,” Eames said, and then, as though a light bulb had gone off over his head, he amended, “Fischer-Morrow.”

“My father's company---”

“Your father’s dead,” Eames pointed out, “That makes it _your_ company, muffin.”

Eames could see the pet name made Robert bristle. If not for the weight of their conversation, he was sure Robert would've picked up something heavy and lobbed it at his head. As it were, he remained standing in the doorway, hands stroking over his biceps; to ease down goose flesh, was Eames’ best guess. After a few minutes of heavy, cloying silence, Robert whispered, “And how would you help me?”

“Simple. I’d fight them off.”

“You'd kill them,” Robert said. It was not quite a question. His voice was cool, detached. “Cobb and this, Arthur. You'd kill the both of them.”

“Like rabid dogs,” Eames said. He could see that this made Robert uncomfortable. It was a strange situation, considering how he had come to be in the company of Mr. Robert Fischer, but of course, the man was nothing more than a little boy in a man's clothes. His heart was too damn tender. “There’s no such thing as professional courtesy here, love,” Eames continued, “You hired me to do a job, yeah? To protect you. Well, that’s what I aim to do.”

“And you wouldn't regret it.”

“Cobb? Maybe. Arthur?” Eames laughed. “No, no. Oh, no. I’d enjoy it.”

“I don't mind telling you that that makes me extremely uncomfortable,” Robert said. His hands stroked faster over his biceps, warding off a sudden, violent chill.

“And I don't mind telling you that I don't give a frig what makes you uncomfortable, princess.”

Again, more bristling. Eames wasn't sure if he found Robert’s holier-than-thou attitude endearing or infuriating. It was a strange mixture of both. Honestly, Eames didn't see what was getting his knickers in such a tangle. Robert had been the one who had so deviously wanted to snare Cobb and his team in their own trap. He had been perfectly willing to leave them trapped in a Hell of their own design, for God only knew how long, until their minds were mush. 

A little extreme force, though, and he was quaking at the knees. Never mind that he had invaded Eames’ home with goons carrying semi-automatic weapons. Robert Fischer was an aristocrat, goddammit, he had his boundaries.

“Do what you need to do,” Robert said, stiffly, “When it’s over, I want you gone. The arrangement stands, just the way it was before. You collect your money, and you head off into the sunset.” 

Eames wanted to hear some kind of admission that Robert would actually miss him when he was gone. No, his voice was taciturn, and the shape of his body was as stiff as a board. He didn't know what they had built together in the few short months they’d known one another, but Eames had thought it was _something_ worth holding on to, or at least trying to hold on to.

Apparently he had been wrong.

****

Cobb stared at the handgun. He was fatigued, hardly able to keep his eyes focused, but he looked at the weapon with growing unease. He had spent most of his adult life doing things that any normal human being would consider horrendous and deplorable, but could he resort to outright, cold-blooded _murder_?

He imagined he had the guts to kill for his own safety, or the safety of his children, but what would happen if Robert Fischer refused to be taken quietly? If he put up a fight? 

And then there was Eames to consider. Cobb knew little of Eames’ history, _no one_ knew what the man had done before he had begun dabbling in dream share... Cobb thought that Eames wouldn't hesitate to kill him. Eames wasn't a rough and tumble man, he had never struck Cobb as someone who reacted violently to most situations, but when it came down to it, yes, Cobb believed Eames would kill him.

There was something about Eames’ eyes he had never quite trusted. They were not malicious. They were not coldly cruel. Nevertheless, there was something that had always rubbed Cobb the wrong way. _You go ahead and do what you do_ , Eames’ eyes had always seemed to say, _We both know I’m better than you_.

_That_ was it. Eames’ eyes, his entire attitude, seemed to broadcast that he was the best, and if anyone had a problem with that, they could kiss his ass. 

He could see himself moving through the darkness of Fischer's apartment, coming across the man as he slept. Cobb had the entire scenario mapped out. Fischer would try to scream, and Cobb’s hand would slap over his mouth. A chloroform rag would take care of his struggling. 

Eames would be there, of course he would, and Cobb would try his best to talk him over to his side. He couldn't promise more money than Fischer -- with Saito out of the deal that remained beyond his ability -- but he could play on whatever scrap of morality Eames had. Their friendship -- Cobb loathed to think of it in such flowery terms -- might be enough to convince Eames that he had made the wrong decision. 

“You're forgetting something,” Arthur said. Cobb started, looking over his shoulder. It was eerie how Arthur always seemed to know what was on his mind. “Eames is a bastard. I could handle that much, I suppose, I’ve known plenty of bastards. But Eames has no moral compass. Zero. Zilch. As soon as you step into that apartment, you're dead. If you think otherwise, you're just being stupid.”

“I don't,” Cobb said, looking back to the handgun. He wanted to make a case for himself, to justify what he was doing, but Arthur didn't need anything like that. He followed Cobb because he wanted to. Cobb certainly didn't twist his arm. The others had abandoned him -- even Ariadne, who Cobb had placed quite a bit of effort and trust in. Arthur, though, remained at his side. 

If Cobb hadn't been so tired, he might’ve wondered about _why_.

“You have to kill him before he can kill you,” Arthur said. In theory, it made perfect sense. It was simple, clean, precise. It was just like Arthur to reduce something so morally and emotionally tangled into an exact science. There was something disturbing about Arthur's lack of outrage at what Cobb was planning. On the other hand, there was also something extraordinarily comforting. 

“If this goes right,” Arthur said, “You’ll have more than Cobol hunting you. Saito won’t be happy to hear that you had the opportunity to permanently pluck the thorn out of his side, and just decided to settle for ransom.”

“I’m not going to kill an innocent man,” Cobb said. The words sounded hollow to his own ears, the words of a man desperately trying to convince himself. “I’m _not_.”

“Innocent,” Arthur scoffed. He was closer now, right behind Cobb. His hand rested on Cobb’s shoulder, tightened briefly. “No man is innocent. We know that, don't we? We’ve seen things that no one else has. We’ve been down in places where no man can hide his secrets. We're animals, Cobb.” 

He leaned down, his lips brushing Cobb’s ear. Cobb shivered. It was not wholly unpleasant. “Do you know what animals do, Cobb?”

“Survive,” Cobb said.

“Right,” Arthur agreed, “They -- _We_ \-- do anything to survive.”

Even still, when Cobb lifted the gun, it trembled in his hand. 

****

Robert watched his father's funeral on the news. He hadn't meant to, but there was no escaping it. Maurice was heralded as a man who had changed the entire energy industry, and through it, the world. Lionized as a man who would be remembered for generations, and whose legacy would continue long after his body was laid to rest. 

Rain beat against the windows. Thunder boomed loudly, shaking the house down to its foundation. The mug of coffee he had poured himself was cold. Robert glanced at his watch, saw that it was nearly eleven, and frowned. He had been sitting there, looking through the television, for over an hour. 

Any other day, the storm would have been soothing. On that day, it only made him feel dismally small. His father was dead. Robert was too confused to focus on any of the emotions that twisted up in his chest. Grief was chief among them, but right behind it was relief. He hated himself for feeling that way, but he knew it was out of his hands. 

Eames snuck up behind him, wrapping his arms around Robert’s waist and resting his chin on Robert’s shoulder. “Day-dreaming?” He asked.

Robert said nothing, only hummed slightly.

“You’d be just as miserable if you were there,” Eames said. “Only there you'd have to stand around like a jackass and have people tell you how _dreadfully_ sorry they are for your loss.”

Eames had a point, tactless though it was. He would be forced to stand there, more puppet than man, shaking hands and accepting hugs and listening to people mourn a man they had never really known. _Robert_ had known him, as well as any person could know Maurice Fischer. Cold, distant, _demoralizing_. Whenever his eyes had moved to him, Robert had felt like crawling into himself and disappearing.

So no, he didn't want to hear how dreadfully sorry everyone was. What he wanted was to be left alone, something that Eames seemed just as incapable of doing. 

“Tell me what you're thinking?”

“I’m thinking...I’d like another cup of coffee,” Robert said. He shivered when Eames kissed the sensitive skin just behind his ear, before he grabbed Robert’s mug and moved into the kitchen. 

Fischer-Morrow. Once the funeral was over, the pundits were forced to discuss the company’s future. Would Robert Fischer (who, disgraceful wretch that he was, hadn’t even attended his own father’s funeral) continue in his father’s footsteps? Most thought yes, though they seemed adamant that Robert would only be a figurehead. Most of the work would be done by men with experience, men who had known and worked for Maurice Fischer for decades. 

Robert watched the reporters and journalists discuss him, smiling bemusedly. It all seemed so surreal. They had only seen him on one or two occasions, typically a shadow in the corners at one of his father’s extravagant events. Yes, there had been reports about he and Maurice’s relationship; “Maurice and Robert Fischer: A Familial Cold War” had been his favorite, actually. In that piece, he had been described as a prodigal son, running around on daddy’s dime. If he had told the talking heads that he had preferred to be secluded from everything and everyone, what would they have said?

‘ _That’s not what our sources say_ ,’ most likely. Robert’s smile widened. Really, the entire circus was amusing. Whatever happened with Fischer-Morrow, Robert was content with the fact that someone, somewhere, would believe he had fucked everything all to hell. 

“There’s something I haven't seen in a while,” Eames said. He placed a steaming mug in front of Robert before sitting across from him. 

“What?”

“Your smile,” Eames said.

“I’m sorry,” Robert murmured, “My father dying and a man wanting to kill me must've sapped up a lot of my good humor. I’ll try to smile more often, for your sake.”

Eames grinned. “That wit of yours is as sharp as ever.”

Robert sighed, taking a slow sip from the mug. “Thank you,” he said, quietly, “For the coffee, I mean.”

“Do you know what you're going to do?” Eames asked.

“No. Not that it’s any of your business, but no. No matter what I do, people will think I’ve ruined everything.”

“That’s the beauty part of it,” Eames laughed, “You've got nothing to lose.”

He tried not to smile, but he couldn’t help himself. Eames certainly had a way of making everything seem simple. “Let’s see if I’m alive tomorrow, and then I’ll think of what I’m going to do,” Robert said. 

“You’ll be alive,” Eames said, “I’ll make sure of that.”

“That would mean so much more if I actually trusted you.”

“Ouch, darling. Right to the bone,” Eames said.

 

****

The weatherman had said the storm clouds over Sydney would be breaking at mid-day, and there would be plentiful sunshine. Cobb dreamed of finding the son of a bitch and beating him over the head with a rusty pipe as he checked the board once more for departure times. 

Flight 104 **TOKYO** to **SYDNEY - DELAYED**. 

Well, _fuck_. 

Arthur took the empty seat next to Cobb, passing him a styrofoam cup. It was warm to the touch, instantly soothing. Cobb sighed, took a sip, and sighed again. It was perfect. Arthur always knew how he liked his coffee. Strange, Cobb couldn't remember ever telling him.

“That’s the beauty of the world,” Cobb said. “No matter where you are, a Starbucks is always within spitting distance.” 

Arthur looked at Cobb impassively. Either he didn't get the witty social commentary, or he didn’t find it particularly amusing. Cobb wasn't surprised. Arthur had been blessed with many things, but a sense of humor hadn't been one of them. 

Apparently, Arthur had been bred knowing how Cobb took his coffee, and how Cobb liked his shirts pressed. And, more disturbing, how Cobb needed the sound of a television to fall asleep. That particular fact had been learned the previous night, when they had been forced to share a hotel room. Arthur, without saying a word, had turned the television down to a murmur, turned off the lights, and rolled over. 

Cobb had lain there for an hour wondering how the hell he had known.

“I spoke with the ticket agent,” Arthur said, “Apparently the weather down in Sydney is pretty bad, but it should clear up in the next hour or two.”

“Hour or two," Cobb muttered, “You know Eames is using this time to get Fischer the hell out of there. Say what you want about him, but he’s not stupid.”

“Far from it,” Arthur said. His face twisted briefly, with obvious distaste. “But he won't run. Fischer hired him to do a job, and Eames always finishes a job. It’s one of his only traits that's even remotely admirable.”

“I'd like to avoid hurting him if I can,” Cobb said. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but that’s the way it’s going to be. We’ll get in there, see if we can get Fischer out without making waves. If Eames... Well, if he makes a move, then we don't have a choice.”

“Eames won’t give us a choice,” Arthur said. He leaned forward, not facing Cobb, with his elbows on his knees. “He’ll kill us. He won't let us set a foot in that house before we’re dead. I know that's not what you want to hear, but that's the way it's going to be.”

Using his own words against him. _Touché_ , Cobb thought.

“You know what needs to be done,” Arthur said, leaning back and tucking his hands in his pockets. 

Of course he did. But that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it. 

****

 

Eames sat by the bedroom window, smoking, looking out over the rain-slicked pavement. Robert slept, thinly, behind him, curled up with his hand resting on the butt of a pistol. Eames thought Robert would only wind up hurting himself with the thing, but Robert had refused to hand it over. More likely, some small noise would awaken him in the night, and he’d wind up putting a bullet in Eames’ back.

That would certainly be a spectacular end to what had been a spectacular affair. 

He thought, once Robert was settled and he was given time enough to sit and think clearly, that his mind would focus obsessively on Cobb and what he was planning. It seemed that he was a glutton for punishment, though, all he could think about was Robert. Eames had gone into the job with certain expectations: Protect Fischer, get his chance to re-try inception, and part ways with the man.

But he had surprised himself. The money hadn't been enough. _Inception_ hadn't been enough. If it had been, Eames would have deserted Robert and switched over to Cobb’s side the minute the man had called him. He had gotten tangled up with Fischer. Tangled up in his pretty eyes, tangled up in the frailty of him. 

Robert liked to believe that he was strong, that he had everything under control, and that he had every _one_ wrapped around his finger. The charade was so convincing, that even Robert had begun to believe it. 

Deep down, Robert was nothing more than a little boy who yearned for something he couldn't understand. Affection from his father, most likely, but with Maurice dead there was little hope of that. Or maybe what he really wanted was someone who would see through all of his deceptions and sophisticated illusions. Someone who would see _him_.

Eames mashed out his cigarette. He grabbed his pack to have another, but when he heard a noise from the direction of the kitchen he dropped the pack on the floor and reached for the handgun tucked into the waistband of his trousers. 

_Jumping at shadows_ , Eames thought, but that didn't seem to convince his gut, which had tightened and drawn up. He moved out into the hallway, looking back at Robert one last time. If he’d have known how the night would end, he might have stayed a little longer, looked a little closer. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, though. Foresight was blind.

He pressed himself against the wall, peeking around the corner and out into the living room. The oversized plant that Robert insisted on keeping sent fronds into his face. Eames swore and batted them away.

There were footsteps coming from the kitchen.

No imagination there. Someone was in the house. Burglars seemed likely, but Eames knew that it was Cobb. It was insane, there was no way Cobb could win. Even if he managed to get his hands on Fischer, what would he do then? Demand a ransom? Maurice Fischer was dead, and Eames believed that most everyone at Fischer-Morrow considered Robert a liability. It would be better for business if he died.

Regardless of the foolishness of Cobb's quest, Eames knew that it was him. There was no logical explanation of how he could know such a thing, it was only a strong feeling in his gut. 

A shadow moved across the wall. Eames saw someone step out from the alcove leading into the kitchen. He pulled out his gun. It was too dark to see who it was. Eames fired, heard a cry, more of surprise than pain, and fired again. He clipped the shadow's shoulder, knocking the figure back. 

"Really don't want to kill you, mate," Eames called, "Better just turn back now and give this up."

A second figure moved out into the living room. Eames fired a third time, but the bullet arced high. He cursed under his breath, aimed again---

A bullet whizzed by his face. He felt the wind of it, and plaster slapped against his face. The bullet had peeled the wall on its trajectory. Goddamn good shot. Eames could feel his heart beating in his throat, and his knees were suddenly made of rubber. He sagged against the wall, out of sight, breathing heavily.

"You know why we're here," a man said, too cold and dispassionate to be Cobb. Ah, Arthur. Eames couldn't help but smile. "Give us Fischer and we'll get out of your hair, no one needs to die here, Eames."

"Almost took half my face off with that last shot," Eames called.

"These bullets aren’t designed to pack that kind of punch," Arthur said, "But, yes, they _will_ kill you. So hand him over, Eames."

Eames heard Cobb grunt in pain. "Eames," he called, "Stop it. You're a man who works on, on odds, aren't you? What are the odds that, that you'll kill us both before we kill you?"

Pretty damn slim, actually. That didn't mean that Eames would just stand aside and let them both get their hands on Fischer. It was more than his infatuation with the man. He had taken on a _job_ , and he meant to see it through to the end. 

"Not looking good," Eames said, "But I can't stop. Not any more than you can."

He pressed flat against the wall, peeking around (expecting a bullet to come flying at his face at any moment) to see Arthur helping Cobb onto his feet. Perfect. Eames' finger tightened on the trigger, but relaxed when he heard footsteps approaching from behind him.

"You told me you loved me," Robert said, whispering, "Is that true?"

"This is so not the time to be talking about whether or not---"

"Is it true?" Robert demanded.

"Yes," Eames said, more of a hiss than a whisper, "It's bloody _true_ , now get your ass back in the bedroom and---"

"If it's true, then stop," Robert said. His hand touched Eames' shoulder, lightly squeezed him. "I'm not one for romantics, Eames, and I'm definitely not one for heroics. I don't want you dying for me."

"You're asking me to give up," Eames said. His voice had lost all inflection. His body, which a second earlier had been hot and pumping with adrenaline, cooled. He couldn't understand what Robert was saying to him, _why_ he was saying it. It seemed too anti-climactic to throw in the towel after all of their planning and preparing. 

If it had been a movie, the entire audience would have booed, thrown their popcorn at the screen, and left the theater. 

"There's a difference between giving up and giving in," Robert said. Eames knew he was smiling, in that smug, officious way he had of doing. He suddenly and very powerfully wanted to punch the man in the balls for dragging him along on this little adventure for so long only to tell him he couldn't finish what they had started. 

"You go on then," Eames snapped, "Go and surrender to them, or whatever the fuck you're thinking about doing. You cowardly _shit_."

No, he couldn't let that be the end of it. He turned to Robert, saw in his eyes he meant to do something stupid, and he did the only thing he could possibly think to do. He put his gun away and he pulled Robert close to him. 

"You couldn't stand me being a man of my word," Eames whispered to him.

"No," Robert chuckled. Eames thought his laugh sounded wet, but he didn't comment on it. It was melodramatic enough holding the man in his arms while Arthur and Cobb stood ready with guns around the corner. 

Robert moved to stride into the living room, but Eames' caught his wrist. "Don't do this," Eames said, _begged_ , "Don't."

"It's true," Robert said, "For me, too. You know that, don't you?"

No matter what Eames said to that, it would never be good enough. He could feel that, but he still managed to say, "Yeah, love. I know."

"I'm coming out," Robert called to Arthur and Cobb. "Put your weapons away."

"We can't, Mr. Fischer," Arthur said, "We can't trust Eames."

Well, that just meant they had been paying attention. 

What happened next, happened in slow motion. Yet, when Eames looked back on it, he would remember it as a blur of movement. Fischer moved away from him, his hand falling from Eames', and Eames saw the gun tucked in the back of his trousers. 

No longer than a minute. It couldn't have been. Robert rounded the corner, pulled out the gun, and fired a round into Cobb's chest. Cobb made a guttural noise, pain and shock, and crumpled. 

A scream of something too sharp and desperate to be anything but anguish sounded. Funny, Eames had never thought Arthur would have that kind of emotion inside of him, but it all came boiling out. There were two shots fired. Eames watched Robert stop, looking down at his chest almost curiously. Blood gushed against his shirt.

Eames was frozen, but when he saw Robert stagger backwards and collapse onto his knees, his own knees unlocked and he rushed around the corner. _He won't leave Cobb_ , Eames thought frantically, _Can't do it_.

But Arthur was dashing back through the alcove. Not thinking, not _feeling_ , Eames snatched the gun out of his waistband and fired, _bambambam_ , at the fleeing shadow. But Arthur was gone. He heard the door in the kitchen slam shut behind him, and then everything was over. 

Eames glanced at Cobb's body with some regret. _Couldn't have taken out Arthur, could you?_ Eames thought, _Of course not_.

If it had been a movie, Eames would have either managed to revive Fischer and get him to a hospital in time, or he would have had a chance to have a tearful goodbye with him, while scolding him for his foolishness. Likely while violins played, sorrowfully, in the background.

When Eames got to Robert he was already dead. 

He _did_ scold him, holding his body in his arms, getting soaked in his blood. Robert didn't hear him, though, and when that realization struck, Eames fell silent. 

There was a mess to clean up. It wasn't the first time Eames had cleaned up a mess, and it likely wouldn't be the last. He tried to focus on what he needed to do, how he should get away, but he could only sit there for a while, holding Robert, feeling him grow cold and rigid in his arms.

Eventually, Eames did manage to do what needed to be done. It was dismal, exhaustive work, but it took the edge off of the sorrow that cut like glass into him. 

He watched on the news, the next day, when Robert's body was discovered. He was mourned by the same people who had shed their crocodile tears for his father, and he was buried not a week after Maurice Fischer. 

His job was done. Nothing was keeping him in Sydney. Considering the many ways he could be placed in Robert Fischer's home at the time of his death, remaining in Sydney was a bad idea. Still, Eames stayed, long enough to visit Robert's grave. The mourners were gone, the dirt was still fresh, and the sky overhead was an ominous gray. 

_It's true for me too_ , Robert had said, just before everything had fallen all to hell. Maybe he had only said that so that Eames would have something to comfort himself with when the nights were a little too dark and a little too cold. 

"Should have believed me the first time," Eames said, kneeling down in front of Robert's tombstone. Still scolding him, still angry at him, still too in love with him to let go and move on. "You should have---"

_You can't finish that sentence, and it scares the hell out of you_. Yes, Robert had said that too, with his blue eyes flashing and his teeth locked in a grin. 

Yes, it was true. 

It scared the hell out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, much love and thanks to ruins_of_sodom for his help and his beautiful artwork.
> 
> Also, thanks to kick_back_80s for beta'ing!
> 
> About the ending, what can I say? I didn't start out with the intention of the story ending that way. It sort of took its own direction, and once it got moving that way, I couldn't do much about it. I understand this sort of thing is super triggery for some people, but please keep your comments civil. :) I'm always looking for feedback, though, so if you have any constructive criticism, please toss it my way.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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